


Gift Giving

by smidget25



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Established Relationship, Love/Hate, M/M, Male Slash, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-04 00:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smidget25/pseuds/smidget25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thorin tries to give the Elvenking a present and it all goes dreadfully wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gift Giving

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Gift Giving (translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120050) by [eikyuuyuki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eikyuuyuki/pseuds/eikyuuyuki)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[Translation]Gift Giving](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165476) by [suirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suirin/pseuds/suirin)



Thorin doesn’t think he will ever get used to such a magnificent sight. 

The Elvenking – always so icy, straight-backed and proud – is curled amongst his sheets, his white skin and golden hair stark against the furs. His body is bare, long plains of still wet skin, and although his eyes are closed, fluttering softly in the pretence of sleep, his breathing is still rapid and uneven. 

Thorin is staring unashamedly, simply because he can, surveying the bruises upon slender hips and his own come drying between pale thighs.

He admires much about the Elvenking’s body (although he would never admit it out loud), so different from his own, but there’s nothing more beautiful than the pale arc of his spine. For although the Elvenking is powerful, both in mind and body, there’s something delicate about the long curve of his back. Thorin caresses each knob of the spine, from the swell of his arse to the nape of his neck, brushing away the soft webs of hair that fall like a curtain to his waist. 

“I have a gift for you,” he announces, into the silence, before he is overcome by tenderness. 

Thranduil opens his eyes, and tilts his head towards Thorin slightly, just about bringing himself to acknowledge the dwarf’s presence. Distrusting and suspicious by nature, he cocks a curious brow, and asks uncertainly, “A gift?”

Thorin rolls his eyes, for only Thranduil would have such a wary reaction to a present. “Yes,” he replies, unable to help himself from imploring, rather unhelpfully, “A gift. Something you traditionally give to the people in your life you care for as a token of your affection.”

Thranduil seems to skip over the gift definition entirely, and narrows in on one word in particular. He scoffs, and repeats incredulously, “You care for me?” As though Thorin is trying to trick him. 

Thorin stares for a moment, open-mouthed, awaiting a flash of a smile – a hint of teasing – but it does not come. “Of course I do,” he growls, because honestly, he doesn’t think he’s been very subtle about it and the Elvenking is nothing if not perceptive. “What do you think we’re doing here? I spend every spare moment with you. I have left the land I spent years trying to reclaim, to venture into a bloody forest, so I can visit you. I’ve defended and justified our bond to council members, and even to my own friends. I’ve taken you to my bed, and only you.” 

Thranduil looks unsure of how to answer. He hesitates, something Thorin has never seen before, and shakes his long curtain of hair. He reaches for the furs discarded at the end of the bed, and uses it to cover his nakedness. 

“You don’t need to lie to me,” he says, and his voice is icy – as though insulted Thorin would dare try. He then continues, in a maddeningly factual tone, “I’m not a love struck dwarrow maiden. What you feel for me is no different than what you feel for your accursed jewels – something pretty for you to admire, and for you to display as a symbol of your power and wealth.” 

Thorin feels as though he’s been struck in the chest with an axe. Yes, he feels as certain satisfaction at having something so beautiful in his bed – a strange sort of possessiveness he had once associated with the Arkenstone. He does, admittedly, spend days upon days admiring the silk of the Elvenking’s skin and the shine of his hair. And yes, it pleases him that everyone knows (in his realm and beyond) that the proud and powerful Elvenking bends only for him.

But that is not why he spends his evenings in front of the fire brushing Thranduil’s hair, or why he’s moved his chamber to the higher levels, towards the sky, where Thranduil claims it’s easier for him to breathe. 

“That’s not true.” 

Thranduil fixes him with a deadly glare – one that would invoke fear in the hearts of mortal men. 

“Well, ok,” Thorin concedes, after a pause, realising it useless to try and deceive the Elvenking. He does not like to be taken for a fool. “That is true. But those aren’t the only reasons.” 

He edges forwards, as though cornering a startled deer, and Thranduil freezes, looking like he wishes to back away but his pride will not allow it. Thorin reaches for him, for the surprising softness of a hairless cheek, but the Elvenking bats the fingers away with a lightning fist, hissing, “Do not touch me.” 

It’s not unusual for Thranduil to startle and act on the defensive when he believes he’s vulnerable, but the outbursts had become less frequent and easier to manage – Thorin likes to believe that the Elvenking is beginning to open up to him, at least a bit. Maybe he’s wrong. 

He sighs, letting his hand drop to the side. “Why is it so difficult to believe that I might care for you?” he asks. “I have no reason to lie.” He folds his arms, and adds, spitefully, because he knows it will rile him: “You’re in my bed already.”

Thranduil flushes, redness spreading from his cheeks to the very tips of his ears, marring the otherwise flawless white flesh. Thorin knows it’s the wrong thing to say before the words even leave his mouth, but he never has been one for great self-control.

“Not anyone!” the Elvenking hisses, stumbling away; he pulls on his robe, shaking with anger, and foregoes most of the buttons in his haste. It’s still parted at the front, showing glimpses of a pale chest and red indents from Thorin’s teeth. His hair, usually a golden waterfall down his back, is damp with sweat. He looks as though he’s been thoroughly debauched, and Thorin cannot prevent the twist of satisfaction in his chest. 

He lets out an exasperated breath, and tries to backtrack. “Thranduil, please,” he says rationally, “You can’t go out there like that. People will see you.” 

Thranduil throws him a glare, although the thought seems to have stalled him. He’s proud, dedicated to his role as King and the respect that it commands; it had taken months for even Thorin to glimpse him so undone, he will never allow mere peasants to look upon such a sight. 

Realising he’s getting nowhere, and that the Elvenking isn’t one he can simply sweet talk (if he was capable of sweet talk, that is – which he isn’t), Thorin decides to try a different tact. 

“I’m not trying to trick you; I don’t take you for a fool,” he says, blunt and honest. He turns back to the bed, where he had hastily stashed the present earlier that evening, and removes it from beneath his pillow. It’s a box, made of solid gold and engraved with the entwined patterns associated with the elves. Thorin had made it himself. “The way I feel about you –“

He pauses then, struggling, for he had never been good with words. But Thranduil is listening, intently, all haughtiest gone from his face now – and he looks curious, perhaps even a little hopeful. His eyes are very bright in the dim candlelight, and Thorin presses on, because such beauty deserves to know how much it’s cherished. 

“Sometimes I still think I hate you,” he begins, and smiles slightly as the Elvenking’s face shutters closed, as he knew it would. Undeterred, he continues, because if he’s going to do this, it’s going to be the whole truth – Thranduil will know if it’s anything less. “Sometimes you make me so angry, I see your abandonment of Erebor again. I like to believe that resentment is gone, but although I try to forgive, I don’t think I’ll ever forget.”

Tharnduil’s fingers are white from where he is clenching his robe so tightly around his chest, but that is the only evidence of his discomfort – his expression is carefully blank. Although it maddens him in private moments such as these, as a King he admires Thranduil’s complete dominance over his emotions. 

“I think you’re haughty, proud, arrogant, sometimes cold and absolutely maddeningly smug,” Thorin continues, in a gruff tone, gripping the golden box in strangely anxious hands. “But I also think you’re strong; protective over those you love; softer on the inside than you would me to believe; elegant; graceful; clever; cunning.” He lets out a nervous laugh, and adds, as an afterthought, “And yes, beautiful.” 

Thranduil’s eyes are wide now, utterly disbelieving, and if he wasn’t so apprehensive, Thorin might take pleasure in seeing him so discomfited. 

“There are no words in my tongue to describe how I feel about you,” he finishes, with a somewhat helpless smile. That is the utter truth. His feelings towards Thranduil had always been complicated; desire, fascination, mixed with anger, betrayal, and possession. 

Before he can back out – he is not after all, a coward – he thrusts the box forward in offering, and says, rather more anxiously than he would like, “I made this for you. Hopefully it will say what I cannot.” 

Thranduil’s pads towards him slowly on silent, bare feet, looking upon the box with something like disbelief. He reaches out a hand, so delicate and slender in comparison to Thorin’s own, and runs curious fingers over the dips of the engravings. 

“You made this yourself?” he asks, and his doubt is clear to see. He does not take the box, although Thorin is offering. 

Thorin remembers, suddenly, a similar situation with his grandfather: upon one of King Thranduil’s visits to Erebor, before the dragon, Thror had promised him jewels of pure starlight, offering them to him in friendship, only to retract them in betrayal. Thorin never forgot the way Thranduil had looked then, upon seeing the gift taken from him; he had suspected that his wrath would be terrible, and it had been. The destruction of Erebor had been testament of that. 

Banishing such dark thoughts from his mind, he nudges the box forwards, into Thranduil’s uncertain hands. He smiles, nods. “It’s fit for a King.” 

Still looking wary, as though expecting a great beast to jump forth from the box and devour him, Thranduil cracks open the lid. There is a pause, in which Thorin does not breathe, as the Elvenking gazes upon the jewels he had so desired: a necklace glimmering with white starlight. They are casting illuminations over the plains off Thranduil’s face, but his expression is frozen, and his chest hitches. 

After a long moment - in which Thorin imagines he’s got this so, so wrong - Thranduil’s eyes tear themselves away from the necklace to gaze upon Thorin’s face. His expression is twisting, contorting, and Thorin can make no sense of it. Finally, he croaks, “Why?” 

Thorin shrugs. “Those are the jewels, yes? The ones that you wanted?”

Thranduil lets out a stuttered breath, and it takes Thorin a moment to realise his breathing is erratic – heavy and uneven. When the light catches the gleam of Thranduil’s eyes, he can see they are swimming with tears. 

“Yes,” Thranduil rasps, in wonder. 

Thorin stumbles back slightly in alarm, exclaiming: “Don’t cry!”

Of all the reactions he had anticipated – including getting punched in the face – the possibility that the stoic Elvenking might cry had never occurred to him. Although the Elvenking, beneath the court robes and icy demeanour, is far softer than Thorin could ever have predicted, rarely does he allow such a slip in control. 

The elf blinks rapidly, to try and stem the tears, and quirks his lips at Thorin in reassurance. He’s stroking the jewels with careful fingers, marvelling at its beauty. “It’s not sadness,” he says, “I’m happy – thank you.” 

The words freeze Thorin with their sincerity, and he feels a hot rush of relief. He will not die a painful death, after all. 

With a curious cock of the head at such an intense reaction, he cannot help but ask, “Why do they mean so much to you?” 

Thorin is sure the Elvenking will not answer – he rarely does when it comes to personal questions – but he is looking at Thorin with something in his eyes that the dwarf has never seen there before. It sends shivers down his spine. 

“I had them commissioned for my wife,” Thranduil explains, gaze flickering to meet Thorin’s eyes, before falling back on the jewels, his long lashes casting shadows upon his face. 

Thorin expects to feel jealously at the mention of a wife who had obviously held Thranduil’s heart in her hand, but he only feels sorrow and understanding. Understanding, because Thranduil’s actions make so much more sense now – and why couldn’t he have mentioned it before? And sorrow, because as much as Thorin had hated Thranduil – and he really had - he feels no satisfaction in his suffering. He knows too the great pain of loss. 

Reaching forward, to clasp Thranduil’s slender wrists in his palms, he says, “They’re beautiful – I’m sure she would have loved them.” 

Thranduil smiles thankfully, a somewhat watery smile, but it’s a real one – no hint of a smirk. Thorin can feel the faint thud of a heartbeat flickering in Thranduil’s wrist, and it is strange – a reminder that he is not so inhuman and invulnerable, after all. Sometimes Thorin needs reminding of that. 

“Would you like to wear them?” At Thranduil’s responding nod, Thorin adds, “Take off your robe.”

Thorin is expecting a rebuff at the order, but surprisingly Thranduil slips off the robe without complaint, leaving a silken puddle upon the floor. He looks positively ghostly in the night, his alabaster skin marred only by the nibbles of Thorin’s teeth. He is all long, lean lines, aside from the swell at the curve of his back and hips; his curtain of silvery hair is the only protection of his modesty. Although it’s a sight Thorin has become familiar with, it never fails to take his breath away. 

With a gentle hand to his hip, Thorin turns him towards the bed, until he’s staring at the knobs of his spine. Unable to help himself, he bends forwards and places a feathery kiss between his shoulder blades, pulling away before he finds himself completely distracted. 

“Bend down a bit,” he breathes, against the nape of Thranduil’s neck. With a responding shiver, the Elvenking complies, bending his knees until his arse is pressed teasingly against Thorin’s hips. Thorin curses in Khuzdul, and Thranduil puffs out a breathless laugh. 

“If I didn’t know better,” the Elvenking whispers, with a playful lilt, “I’d say you were trying to take advantage of me, King Under the Mountain.” 

Thorin squeezes a hip, and promises, “Later.”

He takes the necklace from Thranduil’s reluctant grip, admiring it in the candlelight from one long moment, before bringing it to the nape of Thranduil’s neck. He lays it upon the unblemished skin, and fastens the clasps. 

Thranduil straightens, turns, and brings a hand to touch the jewels in reverence. The necklace is glittering upon his chest, radiant like the sun, catching the light of the candles and reflecting it upon Thranduil’s still shining skin and strands of his golden hair. He looks otherworldly, a spectre of Thorin’s overactive imagination, the very definition of temptation itself. 

He smiles, his cheeks flushed with pleasure, and asks, “How do I look?” 

Thorin blinks at him, and croaks, sincerely, “Magnificent.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I’ve referred to it in here, for those who have not seen it, in the extended version of An Unexpected Journey, it shows Thror offering the jewels to Thranduil, only to take them away again. I think it explains more about Thranduil’s attitude later on. 
> 
> I found it quite hard to balance Thorin’s angry over what happened in Erebor with his growing feelings for Thranduil – hopefully I made it realistic. Thranduil is a difficult character as well!


End file.
